A shadow moved in the park across the street.
It came from the verdant, unsuspecting woods, a transient mirage of the witching hour creeping slowly under the dim light. Its spindly form made no noise, and it offered no clues. It was a being unto itself, but truly the forest's ilk. It spoke a tongue of leaves skidding across concrete, it walked a gait of wind blowing through branches. The moon saw, but the suburb slept. No voices cried out in condemnation in the noir. If there was any objection, nature would not hear it.
I watched silently as the figure carved its route through the park to the edge of the street, where it stopped as though it waited for the signal. The light shafted through the shutters of my room, and only my face obscured the glow. Like a siren of destiny, something stirred me to consciousness while I was sleeping that uncanny night. What coddled me when I dreamed of empty halls and closed doors? The sheets were wrinkled, and a comforter lay in a lump on the wood floor. The house settled as I stood by the window with a blank visage. I made my confession to God in the dark, I exposed my sins to the void.
The willow virgin revealed herself onstage to an absent audience. Her hair was gray and wispy, and it fell to a viridescent dress that transformed from silk into grass traversing its length. I did not see her petticoat, but I reasoned that it was stuffed with stars. In the asphalt spotlight, she sat and looked skyward for guidance, and I saw her face. It was fair and pale, and her eyes were made of sapphires. She would be the wife of the sea if I had ever laid eyes upon it.
The woman of the wood pressed her hands to her breast and cast a glare from her chest. She held her palms out, the radiant star within, and the bright light shot into the heavens, piercing the clouds. An unreasoned, crude zealot might call her then a heathen witch, but I saw a saint in green, a martyr in white. Her hands fell to the ground, and her fingers rooted themselves in the dusty pavement. Her roots cracked the material world beneath her, she arched her back at the climax, and her hair flew above her into a tangle of sticks and foliage. She breathed her substance in, and her torso morphed into a hard shell of bark and trunk.
She fed her identity to the world and tore into the machinations of mankind. She seemed larger, taller now, and her arms stretched longingly to the magnificent heavens. My eyes followed her figure. She twisted into a great oak tree, she raged war with mankind. She gave herself to God. I dreamed of the lady who died.
Not long, but I like to think that this is nothing more than a simple rough draft or an early version of a short story. Comments, questions, critiques all welcome.
It came from the verdant, unsuspecting woods, a transient mirage of the witching hour creeping slowly under the dim light. Its spindly form made no noise, and it offered no clues. It was a being unto itself, but truly the forest's ilk. It spoke a tongue of leaves skidding across concrete, it walked a gait of wind blowing through branches. The moon saw, but the suburb slept. No voices cried out in condemnation in the noir. If there was any objection, nature would not hear it.
I watched silently as the figure carved its route through the park to the edge of the street, where it stopped as though it waited for the signal. The light shafted through the shutters of my room, and only my face obscured the glow. Like a siren of destiny, something stirred me to consciousness while I was sleeping that uncanny night. What coddled me when I dreamed of empty halls and closed doors? The sheets were wrinkled, and a comforter lay in a lump on the wood floor. The house settled as I stood by the window with a blank visage. I made my confession to God in the dark, I exposed my sins to the void.
The willow virgin revealed herself onstage to an absent audience. Her hair was gray and wispy, and it fell to a viridescent dress that transformed from silk into grass traversing its length. I did not see her petticoat, but I reasoned that it was stuffed with stars. In the asphalt spotlight, she sat and looked skyward for guidance, and I saw her face. It was fair and pale, and her eyes were made of sapphires. She would be the wife of the sea if I had ever laid eyes upon it.
The woman of the wood pressed her hands to her breast and cast a glare from her chest. She held her palms out, the radiant star within, and the bright light shot into the heavens, piercing the clouds. An unreasoned, crude zealot might call her then a heathen witch, but I saw a saint in green, a martyr in white. Her hands fell to the ground, and her fingers rooted themselves in the dusty pavement. Her roots cracked the material world beneath her, she arched her back at the climax, and her hair flew above her into a tangle of sticks and foliage. She breathed her substance in, and her torso morphed into a hard shell of bark and trunk.
She fed her identity to the world and tore into the machinations of mankind. She seemed larger, taller now, and her arms stretched longingly to the magnificent heavens. My eyes followed her figure. She twisted into a great oak tree, she raged war with mankind. She gave herself to God. I dreamed of the lady who died.
Not long, but I like to think that this is nothing more than a simple rough draft or an early version of a short story. Comments, questions, critiques all welcome.